MARCH, 2013
I began to feel the truth in Hans’s words when I stopped speaking with her.
My mentor had watched me during that chaotic week in which we defended ourselves from the attack of those feline monsters in Wyoming, evaluating my already erratic behavior. I had just confirmed that my wife had been murdered in cold blood, and that those animals had plans to kill me, my children, and all my companions if they were given the chance. The children and I desperately needed to be able to cling to something. And Hans had noticed what I did not want to see: that my animal instinct and my wounded feelings were rapidly replacing the lost figure of Anya with that of that young, healthy, and willing woman who had opened the door of her house to us, second skin and all, and everything that impli
